Man the Forager--Plants and Wood

It is rewarding to read an outstanding book about plants and one that is so well written as is John Wright's Hedgerow, number 7 in the River Cottage series published by Bloomsbury, London and New York. This 'Hedgerow' book has fine color photographs of the plants that are edible, and has excellent writing: intelligent, knowledgeable, and informative without being stuffy. He is a true a writer, not a 'garden writer.' Wright's book demonstates a long familiarity with the plants he describes. There are plant-fruit recipes, and even a short section on poisonous plants (no recipes) so that we will not get ourselves poisoned or sent to ER, and Wright understands how crucial this information is for children; I having had five, and he three, and he dedicates the book to his three daughters.
   But most of all, I like Wright's book for its Voice.  It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that Voice (i.e. swing), as Ella Fitzgerald sings. Voice is the heart and soul of  good writing. Otherwise one might as well read directions for assembling a bicycle.  You feel that you know Wright as a living person as you read his work. He has a vast reading background and includes allusions from English herbals which create a varied texture to his plant pages.  Best of all though is his wit and sense of humor, his subtle sarcasm that never hurts or stings, never belittles, and there are the funny, down to earth images, like how mallow soup looks like 'grass-cutting soup.' And, he dislikes herbal teas--a man after my own heart. If it ain't got that caffein, it ain't worth a thing. I think that only the English can pull off such witty sarcasm with aplomb (not a plum).  He praises various plants and fruits, but calls it honestly when he feels the stuff is insipid or over rated by know-it-alls. I only wish I could take one of his foraging outings on a clear, lovely English day.
   He emphasizes that man was first a forager. Homo forager, not homo faber. I suppose. He had to forage in order to survive. He got his food by wandering around, picking and collecting plants and fruits and learning the hard way. It is a very primitive (in the best sense of the word), simple, way of life. And, the finds are there for the taking (with permission nowadays of course). I got called a vulgar name only once (after asking permission) for collecting thrown away plants in a dumpster, and  even if you get that treatment you will be just fine.  Consider the source. I suppose early man had to keep an eye out for unpredictable, nasty animals. Anyway, foraging is so very rewarding, getting valuable things and getting them for free. Today, we checkout the cans on trash day or prowl bull dozed yards in suburbia. I have a small collection of orchids and many other plants retrieved from the "green" trash. Some of the plants and small trees are now moderately big shade trees.
   More significant to my collecting zeal, I forage for wood that I turn into carvings and sculptures that I create. That big one in the back yard was lifted as a giant log into my pickup by my kind wife and me. It is of Monterey cedar. One can find special woods that cannot ever be bought; olive, avocado, acacia, liquid ambar, orange, lemon, kumquat, macadamia, just to name a very few. The man down the street, Bob Diehl, a very accomplished wood craftsman and wood turner artist-friend finds all of his wood, and turns beautiful bowls from it. Now that the neighbors know of his talent, I and others are all always there (with ear plugs) at the wretched sound of a chain saw. He takes those savaged olive trees and "turns" them into fine formed bowls. They are exquisite.
   Another friend, Jim Gigler, has a lovely, paradisal garden barely a block away from me. It is a pleasure to see how much he truly loves and enjoys growing plants and trees. When he has to cut off a tree limb or take down a tree that just isn't doing well at all, he sends the wood over to my house via his son.  "Oh Dad, to La Rosa's place again?" I paint-seal the ends of the logs, date and name them with a tags, and I let them sit there to cure, all the while I meditate upon what mystery is in that log. Gigler also leaves plants that he doesn't want anymore out on the curb, which feeds my need for plants and satisfys my early-man,  foraging want. It's a terrific feeling to get a free plant. And, when I find damaged plants that some far less scrupulous others leave for the trash, I feel like a plant resurrector; after a while--weeks, months--or years--I feel a bit inflated that "I saved That!"
   So don't pooh-pooh it if you haven't actually experienced it, eh? Have you seen what foragers bring to The Antiques Roadshow? And some of them get it on trash day.
   Well, I only collect what I need or can use. It's like fishing. My wife keeps me in check there as well. But I must assert firmly, there is something authentic connecting me with my ancient ancestor of the deep forest that really gives me satisfaction and a thrill when I take off with a plant or a choice piece of wood. So there.